Young Holmes - The Signing of the Four
by Toa andrew
Summary: Treasure, deceit and murder. When a client close to home comes knocking on the doors of Baker Street, Young Watson is once again pulled into the aspiring Sherlock Holmes' life of deduction. Following a mysterious four-pronged symbol, the duo must discover the truth of an ancient Indian treasure and the group whose fate was sealed by it.
1. Chapter 1 - Return to the Fold

The last lecture of the week had come to its end and the hall shared a mutual sigh. Some of my peers were out the door before I had the chance to pack away my notes, eager to start their weekend. I had been slow at late, my mind elsewhere. I confess that I was guilty of letting my thoughts and ideas wander to my writing. You see, my blog had become far popular than I had anticipated, and my roommate was quickly becoming an esteemed member of Baker Street. There was a knock on the door at least once every other day. Each one brought with it another client for the mind of Sherlock Holmes.

I had kept myself out of his affairs and acted only as onlooker. Occasionally I took notes during his meetings, which he was happy to oblige my presence in. Most cases had been trivial, and often Holmes was able to make his deductions without leaving the room, much to his client's shock. At least four had been solved in such a way, and I struggled to flesh out these events into something worth a read. Until that day.

That particular case makes itself most worthy of attention, and it is of this that you read about today. I hold it close to me, for it marked the beginning of my journey into Sherlock's world. The crusade of Jefferson Hope and his path to revenge found me dragged along most involuntarily, but this time I became entangled in the madness of criminality of my own will.

I had forgotten about my session with the Councillor that afternoon. They were going well, and I was beginning to open up. I did, on occasion, bring my father's cane along with me, but I was finding the strength to leave it behind some days. I no longer lent on it, for the notion was daft and I was starting to see that truth for myself.

I rushed back onto campus before it was too late. I most certainly didn't want to make the habit of skipping sessions, for that would only be a downward spiral and I would never hear the end of it from Sherlock. One way or another, he would discover even the most irrelevant acts performed by me that he found strange and made a note of pointing out why I would do them. I was sure it was his way of showing off, but maybe it was simply a test of his skills. Sometimes I would check the floorboards around the apartment for his little spies. He had come to calling them his Baker Street irregulars. The only thing that seemed irregular to him was me when he caught me at the act.

"No need for spies when the walls have eyes and ears." He would say. I never quite understood what he meant by that.

The halls were mostly empty now with most students either returning to the library to continue their studies or heading off home. I hadn't expected one peer to be in as much a rush as myself.

I had no time to react to her haste. My books suddenly took flight in our collision. Papers were scattered to the wind and came to rest all around us.

"I'm sorry…I…Oh, God." She gasped.

We both made a bumbling attempt to recover from the mess we had made. Kneeling down, I watched as she gathered her papers with one hand, and wiped her reddened eyes with the other. I didn't recognise her, but for whatever reason that fate had decided, I kept my gaze on her. Her short cut, blonde hair was well kept, and she had made more effort than I in keeping her uniform presentable. Though her face was eschew from all that. It was clear to me that she had been crying, but she was making every effort to hide the fact. Once my own work was sorted, I went about helping her in gathering page after page that had tried to escape in our collision.

There was a cold silence between us until both of our work was back where it belonged. It was not at all like the thought provoking quiet between Sherlock and myself, for my growing understanding of his mind had made it feel like nature. This silence, I had the sudden urge to break.

"I… haven't seen you around campus before."

"I… sorry, but I really have to go."

She was passing me by before any more words could escape my lips. Her eyes had darted between me and the ground in a most erratic manner. I couldn't help but think that the incident had unloosened her from a deep thought process and now she struggled to grasp it back. I had often done the same when thinking about my father.

"I… thank you, and sorry again…"

She took a short moment to turn back and say these words. I watched her leave with all answers to her saddened state following her. I hadn't notice that my work was beginning to slip from my arm once again. I suddenly took hold before they could elude me, and in the same moment I cursed myself inside. Already I was starting to consider the world as my calculating roommate would. Why was this student so upset? What could have brought her to distraction? None of it mattered, for it was her business. Still, I couldn't break out of my curiosity, and her face lingered in every thought as I made my way home.


	2. Chapter 2 - A Mind Left to Mull

He was a sorry sight. When I had first met Sherlock Holmes, I had been given the image of a truly well-kept genius. A description that is utterly ridiculous when used for my roommate that morning. He looked a state. His hair was not smarmed back, and his clothes looked as if they had been dragged through a bush, and then run over by a van more than once.

"You could have at least put something better on than that. You never know, you may have a client any moment." I said in a vain attempt to get him to realize himself.

"Illusions! There hasn't been a case of the right calibre since our little lecture in crimson."

I would watch him as his moved his hands back and forth against each other, attempting to remove an imaginary itch. From room to room he trailed, closing no door behind him. At last, he jolted in a sudden manner and when he returned, he went about revealing a small bottle, and a hypodermic needle.

"Sherlock…" I looked away from the news to pay closer attention to him.

I learnt the truth nature of the marks across his arm that morning. I had assumed them to be part of his experiments. Accidental slips of the knife and blood samples were all I'd considered them to be. I had been very wrong.

"What the hell are you doing!?" I shouted.

The volume of my voice did not deter him, nor did my presence. The contents of the bottle lowered, and I held my hand over my mouth. He sank into his armchair, leaving the evidence of his actions on the table by the window. I was lost for words, and was sure that any I could muster would be for nought. Had desperation brought him to reveal his habit to me? Or, perhaps he didn't care.

His sparks of movement were gone and all that remained was his usual collective nature. Now it was more aggravating than ever, and I couldn't stay silent.

"What was that?" I whispered.

"A seven percent solution… care to try?" He asked without bothering to look at me.

I let out a gust of breath between my lips.

"No, I don't, and neither should you!"

His eyes remained shut, even to my objections.

"You're not even listening!" I stood up and threw down the morning paper. "This is insane. If you get caught, you'll be arrested! And I thought you were meant to be a genius detective!"

His finger tapped against the armchair.

"I know what I am taking. I expect nothing less from you, given your desired field of study, but you have no understanding of how clarifying it is."

"You are something else, you are…" I sat back down, knowing my opinion to be beaten.

"You are aware of my methods. These moments between cases, I do not live for them. Give me the most convoluted riddle ever written, or a mystery so elusive in nature that only the furthest reaches of the human mind could consider braving its grim corridors, and I will be content. I can't… I cannot breath, Watson. I look for all around me and deduce it's meaning, but with none of this to put to purpose, I suffocate. I scream, and this concoction you hate is all that silences it for a time."

It was stupid of him, and the cost was far too great for me to think it sensible in the slightest. On the other hand, he was right. I didn't know how it felt to have a mind like his, and being in a state of isolation from a case may well have been more painful than I could imagine.

"You shouldn't take it… think of the cost." I said, almost begging.

"I do. You are right, but until a solution is found, I am stuck."

I felt pity for his words. He revealed so little beyond his abilities. I thought on what Stamford had once said to me about not knowing him enough. Maybe no one did know him, and all of us only assumed to understand the shell he showed us. Cold, automatic and methodical Sherlock Holmes, with nothing underneath. Surely it couldn't be real?

"You know… I still can't get over the Drebber case," I spoke in an attempt to engage him. "What you did… I'd never been so amazed by anything before," Sherlock gave me no answer. Only a sly smile revealed what he was thinking. "I… started my blog. It's actually quite popular at the university, and even beyond."

He opened his eyes but did not move from the armchair.

"I know. I glanced over it." His voice was monotone.

"You did? What did you think?" I awaited his response anxiously.

"I didn't care for it."

My anticipation deflated. I should have expected such an opinion from him, but the disheartening feeling of having my work criticized still hit me.

"Well… others like it."

"That they may," He answered with his eyes now closed again. "I however, cannot congratulate you. Deduction is an exact science. Each case must be held with clarity, void of emotion. Your blog romanticizes that, as if I were some sort of superhero."

"I just described what happened. I told you, I wanted the world to know what you did."

His eyebrow raised as a single eye looked back at me.

"Some facts should be suppressed. Let them know of how I deduced the case from point A to B. What you have written… it's too fantastical."

"I've read your work Sherlock. Focusing on 'point A to B' is what you do, but not me." I was insistent that he was wrong.

"You have? Was it inspiring?" He asked with the same whimsy I had asked him.

"It's boring." I said abruptly.

"Oh, Watson… not everything has to be dramatized to appeal. The very nature of the text should be what sparks the soul. I can't get on with Hollywood because it forgets the subject and goes for what sells. Books suffer the same fate these days. I'd hoped I had taught you a thing or two in my last case."

I was annoyed with his view. He demanded no praise for his deeds and would have gone on merrily with the case of Jefferson Hope remaining concealed from the minds of the public, but the praise that _was_ given to him, he wanted it to be just as he desired and no different. If he had his way, the entire blog would be focused on each step of his deductions and would mention anyone else sparingly. He hid it well, but his vanity occasionally seeped through the cracks. Maybe it was the concoction of poisons he had taken that morning, I wonder.

"Still…" he said suddenly. "…I must admit, I chuckled at your description of our dear friends Gregson and Lestrade. Often they are out of their depths. I say often; rather it seems to be their default state. Only a higher court can put them on the right path."

"And I suppose that's you?" I asked with a hint of mocking.

"What else can be said from the world's first consulting detective?" He answered with a grin.

There was no tone of self-flattery in his voice, only a matter of fact. It was hard to argue with him.

"You told me once that a person leaves their mark on the things they interact with on a daily basis. Here's a test."

I twisted my watch and removed it from my wrist. I held it out and he cocked his head questionably before return an impressed smile.

"A test would surely be better than a second dose of cocaine. Very well."

I couldn't get used to him saying such a thing so casually, but the task I set him to would at least take his mind off the plight of emptiness. I watched him as he set about taking in every tiny detail. The watch was flipped over and over again in his hand as every shred of data was collated in his brain. Eventually he went about opening up the inner workings. I dare say even the scratches on the metal work did no evade his attention.

Sherlock opened his mouth and leaned his head back, looking as if some great mystery had been answered.

"So… who was the previous owner?" I asked him, convinced that this was a problem impossible to solve.

"I confess there is little data to go on. It has been cleaned recently, robbing me of any obvious clues."

It sounded like an excuse to cover up his failure. At last I had stumbled him, I thought.

He didn't give in.

He returned the watch to me and leaned his head back when he had returned to the armchair. With his eyes closed, he gave no answer.

"You don't know, do you?" I announced triumphant.

"Why Watson… I had no idea you had a brother."

A stone cold silence drowned the room as my twitching eyes locked onto him. I shouldn't have expected anything else, but I was still in shock over how he had deduced it.

"You… no… you can't know that from just a watch!"

"On the contrary. On the back are the initials, H.W. The last initial being Watson of course. Its condition however does not suggest that its last owner was your father. He being an army doctor, and a clean cut and well-kept man from what you have told me and from the condition of his cane, would never let such an expensive watch suffer such disrespect. Scratches and marks of that kind come only from someone who was careless, untidy, or indeed, a drunk…"

I listened to him without a word to utter.

"…his watch is yours. No mention has been made of him, causing me to presume that his actions have left a mark on the family name. The last thing to deduce is that he is no longer with us. Given that the watch is in your possession, and that there has been no prior mention of his existence, He was your older brother, and you knew very little of him before he died."

I sprang from the chair and tried to gather the words to say. What answer is there to that? He said no more in that moment. He didn't look pleased with his deduction. He simply awaited any reply that came his way, whatever that may be.

There was none.

I slumped back in my chair and stared blankly at the screen. My life went further down the hole of unreality with every passing moment living at Baker Street. He was supernatural at times, as far as I was concerned. I still suspected him of dodgy dealings with the data he had. A secret search into my past perhaps? Maybe a secret call to one of my relatives, maybe? It was ludicrous thinking back, but only logical in the moment. The ordeal with Jefferson Hope had proven to me that he was capable beyond that, so I could only go along with his theories of deduction.

"If I have offended you, please no I meant-"

"You're right," I cut him off. "I didn't know him. I don't know how I feel about it."

My expression stayed blank. To think of my father brought grief. Thinking of my brother, there was only emptiness.

"It must be hard," Sherlock spoke. "For your mother. Losing him, and now…"

"I've left her. She only has me, and now she has to survive through it alone." I said, attempting to stay composed.

I heard Sherlock's finger tapping, a constant thump like the clicking of a cog in motion.

"You will do her proud. I will make sure of that."

His words echoed in my head. When I looked up to see him, he had trailed off into the kitchen. The rising whistle of the kettle replaced the new silence. At least he was taking something legal now, I hoped. Sure enough, he came back with a cup of tea. Already he was looking like his old self. If only his clothes did too.

My mind wandered to thoughts of the past, but not my own. I found it hard to imagine a younger Sherlock Holmes passing year by year through school. What on earth the other students must have thought of him I'd never know. I had no idea of his past friends, or family.

"Sherlock… do you have a brother?" I asked in my curiosity.

He almost choked on his drink.

Sherlock brought his hand to wipe his chin. He cleared his throat and made it obvious that no answer was to come from him as he strode quickly into the kitchen. He stood there for a while, his hand by the bred bin. He opened it loudly in a sudden flash of frustration.

"God blast it all! What else is there to live for? I need brain work, yet I am forced to waste away."

There was a light knock at the door, and almost immediately Sherlock was rushing past me. I'd guessed already that it was our landlady by the nature of the knock.

"There is a young lady for you at the door. Good heavens Sherlock, please put something decent on before meeting her! You look a right state!" Mrs Hudson scolded him.

He turned in a flash and clapped his hands together.

"Watson, could you be a lamb and welcome our guest while I make myself presentable? At last!"

He darted off into his room and closed the door behind him. Mrs Hudson shook her head and rolled her eyes before leaving. I followed on behind her and made my way to the front door. I was about to welcome our guest to Baker Street when I was paralyzed and unable to speak at the sight.

I knew her.


	3. Chapter 3 - Father of Pearl

"It's you!" We gasped in unison.

It wasn't the best of greetings, but it was all I could think to say. The strangeness of it, sheer coincidence or no, brought us both to a moment of paralysis that grew more awkward by the second.

"Hmm…" I cleared my throat. "…Please, erm, come in."

She nodded once and without looking back at her, I led her to our apartment. She took a slow, methodical look over our living room, her eyes taking in each detail in a way that reminded me of Sherlock. Our flat was no stranger to solemn silences, but I hated the feeling of it when it wasn't between Sherlock and me.

"Sorry… Would you like a drink?" I asked her meekly, my voice cracking on the last word. I saw a tiny smile form on her face before her pained expression returned.

"Yes please. I don't mind coffee, or anything cold."

I set about the task. Ideas wrestled for attention in my head. Should I have asked her to take a seat? Should I have told her that Sherlock would be out soon? Why was I thinking all this? I had been fine with every other guest. This one was an anomaly and I had little clue why; I had only a tense feeling in my stomach.

The kettle was boiling when the sound of a creaking door grabbed my attention. Sherlock Holmes often performed extraordinary acts, but the greatest of all was his transformation from a drugged-up hermit to the image of a grand, if young, detective. Even the evidence of his morning 'activity' was noticeably absent from the table.

"Sorry to keep you waiting… Hmm…" Sherlock puckered his lip and looked at her curiously. "I do believe I recognise you, but I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"Mary," She answered. "We go to the same University."

To my surprise, Sherlock slowly turned to me. Both his and Mary's gaze were on me. His brow frowned but there was no anger in his eyes as he looked me over. I shuffled nervously and leaned back against the counter top.

The kettle clicked and Sherlock span round in a flash.

"Ah, yes! Now I remember. You wish to be a nurse I believe?"

"I do… but… never mind."

Sherlock had been shot down, and for a moment he looked befuddled.

"Well… please, take a seat and we can begin."

While the two of them were getting acquainted, I took the chance to finish Mary's drink and think on my position. Everything felt more awkward than usual. You would think that three students from the same University would feel more comfortable with each other, but it felt worse than business with the strangers that would knock on our door.

I handed the cup of coffee to her a she gave a nervous smile back.

"I… I can go in the back if you want to, err, explain to Sherlock on you own." My voice cracked again, betraying me.

"It's ok, I'd like you to stay, if you want to."

I stood still in surprise, and Sherlock stared at me with a pensive glare.

"Alright… if you want me to."

I begrudgingly took a seat, trying hard not to reveal my anxiety. Mary seemed to feel the same. I could see it from the way she would scratch the back of her hand and avoid eye contact with either of us. I noticed her occasionally focusing on the window during our meeting, even though there was little to see from the height of our apartment. Curiously, Sherlock didn't take a seat, breaking his usual habit. This time he leaned against the side wall, giving him a clear view of both of us.

"Take as much time as you wish, Mary. Watson and I are here to listen."

Something clicked for her when Sherlock mentioned my name.

"Oh, I thought you must be John. I… read your blog," I felt a hint of pride in that. "The truth is, that's how I knew about you, Sherlock. I heard others say you were strange… I mean, different. I had no idea how clever you really are."

"Thank you, Mary, the flattery is unnecessary, but appreciated. John here has a habit of romanticising things in his blog." He wanted to sound humble but I knew he loved it.

"I do not!" I blurted out.

"I think I made my view on the matter quite clear earlier, Watson. Though I suppose a bit of romanticising may be appropriate, to the right audience." He said to me with a wink.

"What's that meant to mean?"

Mary was amused by our back and forth and was attempting to hold back from chuckling.

"Sorry Mary, he is usually more professional than this."

I rolled my eyes.

"It's fine… I, ahem. I don't mind." She said with an amused smile.

"Please continue Mary…" I told her. "…before I throttle him."

Sherlock ignored my quip, and all attention turned on Mary as she told her case.

"I wouldn't do this, but I really have no idea what to do next. I haven't been able to think straight for weeks. You see… my father is missing."

Sherlock stroked his chin and seemed unmoved. I on the other hand always struggled to hide my sympathies when a client stated their case. The way her voice would go up and down like it was riding a violent wave, and the way she couldn't sit still as she spoke of him; all of it was too familiar.

"I assume you have called the police?" Sherlock asked in his usual collective manner.

"Yes… but they haven't a clue. He is in the army abroad, and should have been back three weeks ago. He called me to tell me he was back in London. I was meant to meet him at the Langham hotel, but he never arrived."

I didn't like where things were going. It was beginning to bring back harsh memories.

"And that was the last you heard of him? And no trace of him was found by the police?" Sherlock began his pacing, as unfazed as always.

"Yes… you're right."

She looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her demeanour back on campus was now making sense. My evolving curiosity in people had given me a desire to know what was up with her then; I wish I hadn't found out. Something about knowing others troubles weighs down on yourself. It was however, our duty now, and Sherlock carried this weight with the greatest of enthusiasm. This was what he craved.

"I've lived alone while he has been away," Mary continued. "My mother passed away when I was very young, and I have no other family in London. I want my studies to be over so I can get back to them. I'd hoped with my father back, it would be easier. I don't know what's happened to him, and the strangest thing of all…oh, I don't understand it."

Her voice began to trail off into a whisper. She stared at the floor and started to speak to herself as she tried to make sense of it all. Sherlock approached her.

"There is more to this, isn't there?" Sherlock asked with a raising elation.

She nodded silently.

"The hotel, his luggage was there, but he hadn't checked in. All he had were a few books, his clothes and some things from the Andaman islands."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"The Andaman Islands? How curious. Why was he there?"

"I don't know. Sometimes he would travel on his breaks. He loved to see the world."

I was a bit lost.

"Where are the Andaman islands?" I asked.

"It's an archipelago to the east of India," he told me. "We once had a penal colony there, until India gained independence. Strange that he would go there, it's basically a museum to the independence movement now."

"I don't know anything about it. He wouldn't tell me where he goes." Mary said.

"Was there anyone in London aware of his movements? A friend perhaps?" Sherlock asked.

"Only Major Sholto. He's retired to Upper Norwood. The police asked him about it, but he wasn't aware that Dad was even in England."

Sherlock almost seemed dulled by what she was saying as the trail ran cold.

"Seems simple enough." He said in monotone.

"I haven't told you the strangest part of it all."

He turned to her slowly.

"Now that is more like it."

"Sherlock, don't be rude." I barked at him. It was rather sudden and I'm not entirely sure where it came from. I was ignored either way.

"It's okay. As I was saying…" She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "Near the time that my father went missing, I received a package in the mail. There was no record of who the sender was. Inside was a large pearl. It was beautiful, and I thought maybe it was from Dad. I received another the week after, and then again this week. I had them checked after the second arrived. They are really valuable."

She reached into her back, and true enough, we had a closer look at the pearls ourselves. Inside a well carved, ornamental box were three pearls. I knew little about such things, but even I could tell that they were in excellent condition. Sherlock looked like a child on Christmas morning. There was very little value in them as pearls to him, but as clues they were the world.

"Most extraordinary," He put his hands together and brought them to his chin as he thought on what she had said. "You say you thought these were from your father. What gives you room to doubt that?"

She didn't say a word. Instead, she reached back into her bag and brought out an opened envelope. Sherlock took it in hand and read through the contents.

"Now… this is most exciting! Mary, I do believe you have a mystery for us to solve."

I cleared my throat.

"Still here, Sherlock." I said with a wave.

"Ah, yes. Take a look yourself, my friend."

 _Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum theatre tonight at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend._

I finished reading and looked over towards Mary. She must have been terrified receiving this letter. She had no one to turn to besides us. I admired how well she kept herself together and only showed as much anxiety as one would expect from a nervous situation. I don't think I could hold it together like her. Actually, I knew I wouldn't, because I didn't when my own father… that is in the past. Now is the time for our mystery, not emotional whimsy.

"Don't worry, Mary. We will find out where your father went. I promise." I said to her confidently.

Her face lit up.

"Thank you. Any help would be amazing, I swear."

Sherlock seemed impressed.

"I thought you wanted nothing to do with my cases outside of taking notes?" He asked, half turning to see me.

"I, err… Mary needs help. I guess one case… won't hurt. Besides, I can hardly take notes if I'm not there."

Sherlock let out a big grin.

"My colleague is quite right. He is rather talented, if not prone to exaggeration with his writing, but even he is not privy to the miracle of mind reading. Besides, the letter states that two friends are welcome to this, well, 'meeting'."

"So…" Mary began, concerned. "You say we should go?"

"That is exactly what I am saying." He answered her. "

"Are you alright with coming along, John?" She asked me.

"I… shall be happy to. I hope I can be of help. Besides, I need to make sure Sherlock doesn't get into too much trouble."

"I hardly think I would ever do that." He said sternly.

"Really? You forget about Jefferson Hope and that alley already?"

He cleared his throat.

"Now is not the time for past stories. Now, we must not be late for this meeting tonight."

"I'll be here at six, if that's okay?" Mary asked.

"I would recommend it. One last thing, was the handwriting on this letter similar to the addresses on the pearl packages?"

Mary quickly returned to her bag and revealed each one.

"I wish all my clients were this organised. Isn't she a model client, Watson?"

"Err, yeah… model client." I answered.

He arrayed the packages on the table. It was most odd to see this figure of Sherlock at work by the window, compared to the state of him just an hour before.

"There is a similarity to them. Each s carries an identical twirl, and the e's carry an unmistakable Greek style. I think I know the answer, but do these suggest that they are from your father?"

She shook her head.

"It's nothing like his handwriting. That's how I knew for sure they weren't from him."

Sherlock gathered the paper together and tapped upon the top of them.

"Pray let me keep these for now, I may do further study. Until six them, Mary. Goodbye for now."

"Yes, Goodbye." She gave a wave to each of us in turn.

"I'll show you out." I offered with courtesy.

"That's okay John. I'll show myself out."

With that, Sherlock pondered over the opened packages as I stood by the window. I watched our latest client make her way alone until she was but a tiny figure in the foggy streets of London. She was so brave to be carrying this alone. When I brought myself away from the window, I spotted Sherlock giving me a very convinced look.

"What?" I asked confused.

"Watson… there can be no bias in a case. No matter how difficult that may be."

My face was blank for a second.

"What do you… I… oh, shove off!" I said loudly and made my way to my armchair.

"I have seen many states of John Watson these past couple of months. Sadness, grief, anger. This, is something different entirely." He noted with his hands behind his back.

"You see everything, don't you, Sherlock? You don't understand though." I picked up the newspaper. Not to read it, just to put it between the two of us.

"Maybe I can't feel the same, but I can comprehend at least. She does carry herself with a certain… how do I describe it?" he began mumbling to himself.

"Bravery, class, intelligence, beau… oh, whatever."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. It was the first time I had heard him let out such emotion, and honestly it scared me a bit.

"It's alright. Just, remember to focus on the case."

"You really are a robot, aren't you?" I said, knowing the paper was futile. He knew I wasn't reading it.

"Practicality has to come between you and emotion in this line of business, Watson. One of my first cases involved a rather attractive mother of two. The case seemed simple at first, and all fingers pointed to her husband when it came to their children's kidnapping. The eventuality of it proved otherwise. Not many expect an innocent mother to be a murderer."

The thought chilled me to the bone.

"I get what you are saying. This isn't the same though." I told him.

"Maybe not, but I never make exceptions. Don't fall down that rabbit hole yourself. There may be more than long-eared creatures waiting for you in the dark."

Now I had images of murder rabbits. What a strange day.

"She's… she shouldn't have to go through this alone. It isn't fair."

Sherlock fiddled with the buttons on his jacket as he prepared to go out.

"She isn't alone. She has us."

That was true. Very true indeed.

"Well, I have a small investigation to do myself. I shan't be gone long. Oh, something good came out of today, at least."

I spotted him glancing over to the kitchen.

"Best be off!"

He dashed out of the door, leaving me alone as he often did.

My head was a whirlwind of thoughts. I hadn't felt like that before. It didn't hurt like it had with my own father. Now my stomach felt twisted, like I was fighting to understand what was going on. I couldn't get the affair out of my head. Not least, Mary. She was like me, fighting to see her father again. My fight for that was in vain, but hers need not be.

I glanced over the back of the chair to see where Sherlock had been gazing at the kitchen. My cane rested by the fridge.

I hadn't touched it once that morning.


	4. Chapter 4 - A Quest Amongst Ghosts

My roommate was full of energy when he returned. He was cutting it close and I was concerned he wouldn't be back in time, but thirty minutes still remained before our arranged meeting.

"I may have been quick to jump to this case. There may be no great mystery after all." He announced, pleased with himself.

"You've solved it already!? Mary will be pleased… I hope."

"Not quite. Something still alludes me. I took the opportunity to research this 'Major Sholto' Mary mentioned. This took me to a dead end. Quite literally."

It sounded grim, and I had a horrid suspicion why.

"He's…"

"Just under a month ago. I'm afraid Sholto will be of no help after all, unless we can summon the dead."

I didn't want to dwell on the thought of it. Death had a habit of drawing my mind towards one person, yet no matter how much I tried, I couldn't flee Sherlock's lifestyle. I was called to and terrified of the very same thing. Maybe I was going mad, or I was twisted deep down. Seeing Enoch Drebber's body at my feet was where it had all begun. Sherlock's first case changed everything for me, and ever since I have questioned myself.

Staying occupied in something was a temporary escape. I put the kettle on for the two of us while he made ready to meet with Mary.

"So, what does this mean? If Sholto is dead, maybe it has something to do with the case?" I asked him.

"I know little of the personal details, but it is odd, don't you think?"

I looked at him blankly.

"Come on Watson, think on it. Just a short while after Sholto's death, the only man who could have seen our client's father, she starts receiving trinkets of extraordinary value. One pearl a week at a time, leading up to the letter. One, I might add that describes her as a wronged woman. In what way has she been wronged besides the loss of her father?"

I pondered for a moment and attempted to piece the puzzle together.

"So, could the person who sent this letter be related to Sholto?" I considered.

"That is my own assumption. If this is the truth, then Sholto did indeed know of his disappearance, or one of his relatives does at least. If this is the case, then why the secrecy? What a perplexing thought! Once again Watson, I must commend you for placing me in the path of intrigue!"

I wasn't convinced he was right there. For all my efforts to escape it, I was becoming notorious for pushing Holmes towards it. One force on another, perhaps?

"Still," I added. "What a weird way to go about it, giving Mary pearls each week."

Sherlock grinned back at me.

"It has its difficulties, but I am sure the notion will be cleared up tonight. Speaking of which!"

A taxi had arrived outside. I could see one occupant in the back seat, and I would have bet money on who it was.

"We better go down, our client awaits!" Sherlock said in high spirits.

"Going with the deer stalker again?" I joked at his appearance.

"A low profile is called for here, Watson." He answered sternly.

"Not with that getup! Everyone will be looking at you!"

"And that ludicrously draws with it little suspicion. Why would I be attempting to bring about such attention if I had shady desires? Now, onward, Watson!"

"For the love of God Sherlock, call me John!"

I retrieved my father's cane and slammed the door behind me. I had my misgivings about what we were doing, but such thoughts fled to the wind when I saw Mary inside the taxi. She was wearing a thick wool coat, with a scarf that just appeared below her neck. I wish I had put on something warmer, for the weather had turned. Winter was certainly drawing near.

A chose to sit beside her, as I knew Sherlock would want to gaze out of the window as he focused on whatever process would go around in his brilliant but infuriating mind. He smiled at my seating choice, but I don't think it was for my courtesy towards him. I frowned back.

"Good evening, Mary," Sherlock greeted her. "God, what a dreary evening."

"Good evening." She replied, not hooking onto small talk.

She seemed a lot calmer than earlier. Actually, I was surprised and a bit envious of her composure. I was becoming a nervous wreck. There I was, in a taxi beside a boy who saw himself as a master detective, and a girl I barely knew who was counting on us to find her father. Not exactly what I had imagined when I left for London.

The typical city atmosphere didn't help much. By the look of Sherlock's uncompromising stare, he was thinking intently, and the outside world was a blank canvass to him. Unlike him, it was drawing my attention. It wasn't even seven o'clock and already night was setting in. Passers-by were like ghosts in the city fog. Murky rain clouds loomed overhead. A warning of what is to come, I thought to myself. None of it helped to clear my nerves.

Mary appeared lost in the same streets as me. The dreariness dampened both our spirits, and I thought maybe, we could talk to forget about it.

"Mary…"

She was startled somewhat from her daze.

"Oh, yes John?"

"…Did you, get on with your father?"

It was a personal topic, and I regretted asking it as soon as the words had escaped my lips. Mary however, took it in her stride and seemed happy to answer.

"Without my mother, I've grown up with dad. I don't often see the rest of my family, so it's mostly been me and him."

There was a smile on her face that hid more upsetting thoughts behind it.

"I was lucky, I guess. I knew both my own parents until a few years ago. My dad you see, he-"

"Died," She interrupted. "I… sorry, it's just, I read your blog." She said, looking guilty for say such a thing.

"Of course you did… I forgot." I said, embarrassed.

"It's really quite good. I thought you were making a lot of it up, but then I heard about Sherlock from others at University, and the news reports confirmed it."

I was dumbstruck for a moment. At least someone appreciated my writing.

"I… thank… you." my voice croaked, causing her to laugh.

I looked away anxiously towards Sherlock, who was still locked away in that 'brain attic' of his.

"Is he doing that thing?" She asked.

She'd noticed.

"Yeah. I don't really know what he does. I think he makes it up half the time."

He didn't react, so I assumed he really was focusing too hard to care.

"It's all really exciting. I just wish… it wasn't in these circumstances." She said.

"You like this sort of thing?" I asked her, surprised.

"Oh yes! I've read a lot of mystery novels since I was young. Agatha Christie mostly. Miss Marple and Poirot."

"Droll…" Sherlock whispered.

"Not a fan?" I said, sarcastically.

"Unbelievable twaddle. An old spinster as a detective. Who would find that exciting?" He criticized.

"And I thought you had no care for novels?" I pointed out.

"I believe in a set purpose for a work. Yours was an account of our case, and so I judged it as such. Agatha Christie's novels are for entertainment. A purpose for which I find them unfitting."

I scoffed.

"Don't listen to him. He can catch a murderer, but his taste in writing sucks."

She tried to hide the fact that she was giggling at our back and forth, but it was too obvious to me.

"I bet you win every argument with your brothers or sisters, Sherlock?" She asked him, still giggling.

"You assume I have any?" He seemed touchy at the subject.

"I wouldn't bother, Mary, I've thought often about his family but he hardly gives away anything. I call it the Sherlockian game." I told her.

"He finds pleasure in such mundane trifles." He replied with his eyes closed.

"Don't bother, it's like getting blood from a stone with him."

"That's not as hard as they would have you think it is," Sherlock's intelligent manner perked up. "If you place the black residue commonly found atop a stone in a flame it will start bleeding a fire-red liquid."

"Well then it's not really blood, is it?" I barked.

"If you want to delve so technical into these things Watson then be my guest. Sorry dear, as you can see he is infuriating at times."

"I hate you." I had to stop myself from gritting my teeth. Mary on the other hand, was receiving the greatest of joy seeing us jabber back and forth.

"You two are like an old married couple!" She spluttered while laughing.

"Old?" We asked in unison.

Mary composed herself while I did everything to resist punching my roommate. While we did so, she seemed to remember something.

"Oh, I forgot to show you. We found one more thing in Dad's desk. I don't know what it means, and the police couldn't figure it out. Maybe you can?"

Mary presented Sherlock with a folder letter.

I watched him examine every inch of it, even going as far as to sniff it.

"It has been pinned to a board for a time, judging by the small holes. It appears to me to be the plans for a large building. You can see here, this part is marked with '3.37 from left'," He showed the two of us. "The left hand corner is what grabs my interest."

It was a strange thing indeed. It looked like a hieroglyphic with four signatures etched one on top of the other.

"What is that writing beside it?" I asked.

Together as one, all three of us read it out loud.

"The signing of the four."

Every piece of evidence Mary brought with her tantalized Sherlock further.

"Oh, Mary. I must apologies profusely. At first I doubted this case's merit, but you have brought me just what I was looking for."

She was fascinated by his reaction.

"You think you can work this out?" She asked, hopeful.

"Would I be here if I thought not? This is indeed a fascinating artifact. These men appear to have formed their own symbol, using the style of ancient hieroglyphics from their own signatures. It is a true archaic design. Clearly these men had an interest in the historically valuable. Jonathon Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar. We have a base, at least, in case this meeting tonight proves less than useful. For whatever reason, this piece of paper was kept in a notebook after being pinned. Such is evident from the clean nature of both sides."

"You're right," She told him. "It was in his pocket book when we found it."

"Then treat it carefully, Mary. We may need it."

Sherlock swiftly returned to his own mind, and both Mary and I spoke quietly. I was surprised by how similar we were. Her current predicament was something I was becoming glad to be involved with. If I were her, I would be desperate for someone to be on my side.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Bald Man's Tale

I had forgotten our reason for being in that taxi. Mary and I were lost in our back and forth. She told me about her father, and how he loved to travel whenever he could. He'd often bring back trinkets from all over the world. His career in the army seemed only natural to his personality, but whether for business or pleasure, he rarely spoke of the places he saw.

"I'll admit," she continued. "I often grew envious of him, going out and seeing the world, while I had to stay here and study."

It sounded like she saw even less of him than I'd see of my own father. I found myself speaking about the incident that led to the use of his cane, completely forgetting that she had read my blog. I felt stupid after that.

"Did you… ever feel nervous when he left?" She asked me, her tone saddening.

"Not really. He'd been in the army as long as I can remember. It was just, normal I guess. I didn't ever think anything would happen."

Although I hadn't lingered on it in the past, I could tell the same couldn't be said for Mary from the way she had asked.

"We will find him, Mary. I promise you," I consoled her, eliciting a smile from her. "I'm sure Sherlock already has ideas where he could be." I turned to see him slouching. He opened his eyes and looked at me sternly. I'm glad Mary was unable to see him.

Outside, the fog had not cleared up. I could barely spot anyone, but it was hard to miss the theatre emerging from the mist on that macabre night. Crowds were building outside the Lyceum theatre like a congealed cloud in the mist. It was certainly a far fancier place than I was used to. The women were covered in priceless jewels, and their partners wore suits that must have cost a value I dared not think of. It was another side of London I wasn't used to, but Mary seemed unfazed by the sight.

Our taxi reached its destination, and the true nature of what we were doing hit me like a bus. We had no idea what we were walking into. Was it wise of us to go into this blind? I had done as much, and I couldn't fathom why. Mary… she wasn't like our other clients. Sherlock's clients.

Not one of us had the chance to pay our driver his due before I heard a tapping on Sherlock's window. He wound his window down with his usual look of curiosity. The fuzzy silhouette behind the glass transformed into the image of a short, dark man dressed in the same manner as the rich patrons behind us. I felt Mary's arm leaning against mine.

"Miss Morstan?" he asked. I couldn't pinpoint his accent, but it certainly wasn't European.

"Yes. Are you the one who sent me the letter?" Mary spoke with grace, and with a calmness I envied.

"I trust you came without the police, and these are your companions?" He fixed his gaze on Sherlock for a moment, whose returning look was like thunder. "I had imagined something more, but perhaps we shall see. Come with me."

We had no choice but to enter the cold night if we were to go any further in our mystery. We paid our driver and followed this sheer stranger further behind the theatre. Waiting for us was a short limousine, its windows tinted. If my mother could have seen me, she would have thrown a fit. There were the three of us, off God knows where with a man whose intentions were unknown to us. I held faith in my roommate out of desperation. He was clever enough, I hoped, not to lead us into a trap. His past record didn't fill me with confidence, but when I saw Mary beside me, acting far braver than I felt, I knew I couldn't give up on her. I would have wished for the same thing myself, someone who could help bring my father back.

The short man who had met us sat in the front passenger's seat. I couldn't see the driver's face behind his chauffer's hat, but by the colour of his skin he was of a similar nationality to his compatriot. The mood from the taxi to the limousine had dimmed, so to calm my own nerves and that of Mary's, I carried on with stories my father had brought back with him.

I couldn't tell you for the life of me what was said exactly. The complete insanity of what we were doing, and the foggy city outside made me feel as if we were driving through the clouds themselves, away from the world and into our past. Mary described the treasures her father had brought back from his travels.

"I'd like to see some of them one day."

I'm not sure why I said that, it's the only words I can remember. Mary's grin and her excited laugh however are like a painting with the utmost clarity in my memory.

I had lost my bearings. I wasn't knowledgeable of London, and my conversation with Mary left me with no hope of knowing where we were regardless. Sherlock didn't suffer from the same qualms and went on to mutter every curving street as we veered through each like a mouse in a maze.

"Rochester Row… Vincent square. Now Vauxhall bridge road. We are making for the Surrey side. If you look outside, you should see the river."

Mary and I peered out into the mist. Car headlights and lampposts shone through the murk and reflected like crystal off of the Thames. We were crossing the bridge.

"Wandsworth Road," Sherlock continued on like a human GPS. "Priory Road, Larkhall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Coldharbour lane. I dare say that our journey is not through the most glamorous streets."

The neighbourhood mirrored Sherlock's image of our path well. Homes built from a dull brick were sandwiched between public houses. The fashionable intermingled with the ugly as we passed terraces and villas, until the limo stopped in front of the third house in a new terrace. None of the surrounding homes looked inhabited, and our destination appeared just as bleak if not for a single glaring light from the window. Considering our ride, our meeting place didn't fit the situation at all.

The man who had brought us here remained in the driver's seat, whilst his partner left the vehicle without as much as a word. He stood by the front door, seemingly waiting for us to follow in his footsteps. Sherlock and I made sure we kept Mary close, though she showed no sense of fear. Upon knocking, we were met at the door by a Hindu man clad in a yellow turban and sash, with white, loose fitting clothes. A suburban terrace in London was the last place you would think to see such a person.

"The sahib waits for you inside." He said as a second voice piped up.

"Send them in, Khitmutgar. Straight to me."

We were lead on through a poorly lit and worn out hallway, the wallpaper peeling away at the edges. Inside, we were greeted by the establishment's owner. He was bald, say for the row of ginger hair around the fringe of his scalp which made him look far older than he was. His face was ever changing as he looked us over. There was a calmness to his demeanour, and slowly our anxiety withered.

"Please, take a seat in my inner sanctum. Your servant, young Mary, your servant, Gentlemen. It may not be much, but it is my sanctum in this urban jungle."

The interior was nothing like the gloom outside. First appearances betrayed the oriental glamour inside. Expensive tapestries and flowing curtains adorned the walls. I was standing on the thickest carpet I had ever seen, which sunk softly with every step I took.

"Let me put you at rest, for I'm sure you wish to know why you are here. Mr Thaddeus Sholto is my name. You are of course Mary Morstan. I do believe I am unfamiliar with you friends, though this one's face seems strikingly similar to one I have seen recently."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, impressed and just a bit smug.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson." Mary introduced us to this strange, short man.

"It is nice to see you have friends to rely on. At least you aren't alone." He said with a warm smile and a pendulous lip.

"Well… thank you. They are from my university."

"Ah! Learned as well. Pray tell me what you are studying."

Sherlock gave no answer, so to avoid adding to the air of awkwardness, I piped up.

"Medicine. I'm training to be a doctor someday."

"Oh, an honourable profession. Come here, see if you can add your valid opinion on this."

The man took out a stethoscope, I assume belonging to his doctor. Placing it to his chest, I listened to his heart.

"It seems fine to me."

"Good, good. I have been worried about the mitral. Trouble in the past, you see. Had your father refrained from putting stress on his own heart, Miss Morstan, he may well be alive today."

My own heart skipped a beat. I felt the adrenaline run through me, and a desire to punch this man for speaking so brazenly. Could it be true? I thought. Had our case led us to the worse outcome?

Mary looked to the black carpet and stared into its thick fibres, her gaze seemingly lost in it.

"I… I knew deep down something had happened… But I'd hoped…"

My hand closed around hers. I couldn't prevent myself from giving that comfort, no matter how little we knew each other. That dark moment when time grows still, when the news first hits you like a lorry. I knew exactly what she was going through, yet she still spoke with a great composure.

Sherlock's expression had not changed.

"I know this must bring a great pain, and I can give you every information, but that isn't all I have called you here for," Sholto said. "I can give you justice. I am glad you have your friends with you, regardless of what my brother thinks."

Justice. This man seemed to know too much. Suspicion met me.

"Your brother, you say?" Asked Sherlock.

"Yes, Bartholomew didn't agree with my way of going about this, but nothing would annoy him more than publicity. You can serve as witness to what I have to say, so the truth can be out and be of little doubt."

Sholto sat himself down on the settee and offered us a seat. Three chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle, all facing him.

"I only ask that what we say tonight goes no further than our own ears. Any word that escapes may just compromise any promise I can make you."

That didn't fill me with confidence in the slightest. Mary looked poised, both holding back tears and ready to follow up what this man had to say.

"On my part, I have no intention in letting our meeting tonight fall prey to outside knowledge." Sherlock answered with his arms crossed.

"That is good. Splendid. You poor dear, may I offer you a glass of Chianti for the nerves? Or maybe a Tokay? I'm afraid my selection of wines is thin."

"That's okay… I don't drink." She answered quietly.

"Well… I hope you don't mind me having a smoke with mine. It reminds me of home, you see."

I covered my mouth as smoke danced about the room. Mary did the same, though Sherlock barely moved a muscle.

"I know this is an unorthodox way of doing this my dear, but the situation isn't exactly normal. If I had given you my address from the get go, I ran the risk of having an unfortunate mess befall my home here. Police searches aren't exactly a gentle affair, and with this business going on I would without doubt arouse suspicion. I gave orders to my man Williams to ensure that this meeting would go undisturbed. I apologise for his bluntness, but he is loyal at least."

The man who had met us at the theatre was outside the door the last time I had seen him. He was probably still there as we spoke.

"I'm sorry but… please, can you just tell me what's happened to my Dad? I don't know what to think…" Mary was no longer willing to keep up pretenses.

"Yes… of course, my dear. I will keep the time in mind, though it _will_ take some time to explain, and we will have to see my brother in Norwood. He was off yesterday before I could get him to see sense. You don't want to see him when he is in a rage."

I clenched my fist.

"You can see how all of this is upsetting for Mary, if we need to see him then we should go there now!" I ordered.

He wasn't startled at all, the man laughed until his ears were red, as if my ignorance of the man in question amused him.

"That won't do! If I marched in now with you, who knows what he would say. I think it's best if I tell you my part in this, so you know where we stand, so to speak."

"I have no objections." Sherlock added.

"Good, good. Now then. Bear in mind I have some gaps on the subject myself, but I will inform you on what I know."

The man began his story, and I was ever conscious of Mary beside me. This was not going to be easy for her.

"As you will know, my father was in the army. He came to live in Pondicherry lodge, in Upper Norwood. He'd had the fortune of travelling to India in his time, and brought back with him many valuables. Enough at least to buy a great house. His health however, no amount of money could solve."

The bald man took a swig of his drink before continuing.

"Aha… Where was I? Ah, my brother. We were his only children, my twin Bartholomew and me. We knew of your father, Miss Morstan. He had been part of my father's regiment many years back, as you may know. When we heard of his disappearance a month ago, he was upset… more so than we understood. We had no idea that he knew what had happened to him from the start."

Mary gasped.

"He… knew where Dad was!?" she exclaimed.

"I know this is hard my dear. This is why I have brought you here tonight, so you can know the truth as you deserve. My father had become increasingly paranoid in his later years. He would rarely go out alone. He would always have two bodyguards at his call, beasts of men they were, boxing champions I believe. He had an aversion you see, and it took a while for us to find out what it was towards. The day it came out was quite a shock, I can tell you. He opened fire with his revolver, at none other than a man with a missing leg."

The story had become random in my mind. From Mary's father to a legless man.

"What?" I remarked.

"Curious, eh? It turns out he was terrified of them, men with prosthetic legs I mean. It was lucky he missed the poor sod, or his prosthetic costs would have doubled." The bald man laughed.

"It's not a laughing matter!" I shouted.

"John…" Sherlock whispered.

"I know, it is in bad taste. Please forgive me young man, a sense of humour I've found is a treasure during moments in your life. Let's get back to it shall we? One morning, he received a letter from India. His face went white, and I was convinced he was about to keel over. His health quickly deteriorated following that day. An enlarged spleen, the doctors told us. Barely a month ago, he was on his last legs, if you will pardon the pun. He was propped up by pillows when we entered his room. He took both our hands and told us his secret."

Sherlock looked most curious. His brow scrunched as he took in every detail. Mary's face was sombre, but she was no less engaged. I just felt ill.

"His voice was as strained by emotion as by pain. He felt guilt my dear Mary, for his treatment of you regarding your claim to a treasure he had kept hidden."

I don't know how Mary kept it together. Every sentence brought to life something new to stun us all.

"A treasure…" Mary's voice broke.

"Yes. He told us both that he had not shared the treasure with any other, his greed driving him to keep it all, and so he spent not a fraction of it. He brought our attention to a box containing a great set of pearls. He intended for you to have them Mary, though his avarice had prevented him from doing so."

"But why!? Why give them to me?" I could hear her voice so full of confusion.

"Because of the Agra treasure." The bald man said.

Sherlock looked like a child in a sweet shop.

"Agra treasure, you say…" he whispered. "And I take it, that to come into possession of this treasure, you required the aid of Captain Morstan?"

"Spot on. You are a sharp one! Ahem, I mean no disrespect for your memory of him, my dear, but many of us have our secrets…"

"No… he wouldn't. He didn't steal it… did he?" She sounded more heartbroken by the minute.

"You deserve to know the truth, my dear, as painful as it may be. Unless of course…"

"No, no! I have to know. Tell me." She gasped, desperate for the truth.

"Of course. My father had been the only one to know about captain Morstan's failing heart. It was a remarkable chain of circumstances, but whilst in India, the two of them came across a remarkable treasure. My father brought it here to England, and when he arrived in the country, Morstan came over to claim his share."

Mary's brow was constantly scrunched, trying to understand.

"He said he was going to meet me…"

"I believe he was, when his share was safe. When it came to how the treasure would be split, there was a disagreement. Your father was enraged, and in that moment he stood up only to place his hand to his head. He lost his balance and struck his head on the treasure-chest. My own father claimed that he was dead. There was little he could do, for any action he took doomed him to suspicion, given the treasure, the heated argument, and the circumstances of Captain Morstan's death, you see."

Mary and I sat in stunned silence. I had made her a promise that we would find her father. I'd already broken it. Sherlock had his eyes closed and his arms folded.

"Please… what happened to him after?" Mary asked meekly.

"That was a complication. My father's servant, Lal Chowdar was in the doorway. He had no doubt that the cause was murder, and suggested that they hide the evidence."

Mary couldn't sit quietly any more.

"How do I know any of this is true!? How do I know he _wasn't_ murdered!? This isn't fair!"

I stood up alongside her, not knowing what to do for certain.

"I know, it is a horrid affair. I only tell you all that I know, all that was told to me."

Mary breathed heavily, then slowly sat back down, surrendering to the fact that there was no good in falling to anger. She would never find out the complete truth if she left.

"Tell me…"

The bald man took another sip of his drink and then cleared his throat.

"My father had kept his share, and yours for what little remained of his life. He held our heads near him and began to speak of its location, but in that moment his jaw dropped and his eyes pierced past us. "Keep him out! For Christ's sake, keep him out!" He shouted. We followed his gaze towards the window. A face was looking back in the darkness. Whoever it was, they looked wild, with a dirty beard. They were gone in an instant, and soon after, so was my father."

Sherlock scratched his chin, finally opening his eyes.

"Was there anything left behind that could reveal who the man was?"

"All that we could discover was a single footprint in the flowerbeds. We thought that we had imagined the unsightly face, until the next morning when our father's window was found open, and his cupboards rifled through. As far as I know, nothing was taken, but something was left behind, resting on my father's chest."

The bald man took out a dirty looking piece of paper. Sherlock took it without hesitation, and a pleased smile fell over his face. He held it out to the two of us.

"That symbol…" Mary whispered.

"I believe we have a link. Curious how this would turn up again."

It was the same four pronged signature.

Mary had turned white. I thought she was going to pass out at any moment, so I made myself busy in the kitchen preparing her a glass of water. She seemed grateful, and took a couple of sips. We all were silent for a while after, with Sherlock pacing, deep in thought.

Colour returned to Mary, and Thaddeus Sholto took this as his queue to continue the night's journey.

"We have searched this long month for the treasure our father spoke of. Its location was on his very lips as he passed. It was maddening. Brother Bartholomew was concerned that anything we did with the little of the treasure we had in our possession would get us in trouble with whoever our father feared. It took much persuasion, but at last he agreed to let me track you down my dear, and begin sending you the pearls that rightfully belonged to you."

Mary appeared estranged by the thought, but thanked him all the same.

"It was good of you… at least it gave me hope." She said.

"I am so sorry about your father, Mary. This was such a shock to us, I assure you. I can't imagine what it must be like for you."

Sherlock stared at the man, stealing every little nuance for his mind to calculate.

"There is more to this. You didn't just call Mary here for her to listen to this truth. All of this could have been communicated in a letter, but you took the risk of bringing us all to your home."

The man laughed.

"You really are perceptive! I love it! You have done well in your choice of friends, Mary. He is right of course."

"There's more?" She asked.

"Indeed. Yesterday I had the most stunning of news. The treasure has been discovered, and it is only right that we travel up to Norwood tonight for you to claim your father's share."

Mary didn't look pleased at all.

"I don't know… can it really be mine, if it was stolen?" She asked sombrely.

"Whoever it once belonged to is long gone, my dear. It is a treasure after all, from older times. Your father put himself at great risk acquiring it, and the only reason he would have done so would be for your benefit."

A could image the guilt that racked with the decision she would have to make. It was the last thing left to her by her father, and even if it was a great sum, it was of little consolation. I knew I would have given away any treasure to see my own dad again.

"My brother knows of or imminent arrival, even if he disagrees with my way of going about this. Now then, all that remains is for us to head off at once."

The bald man retrieved a thick top coat and rabbit-skin cap that covered his ears. He was wrapped up tight even for a foggy night. He must have been boiling.

"I'm afraid that my health is somewhat fragile." He said as we made our way to the front door.

"This is a good thing you are doing for Mary. If we can be of any assistance in discovering your father's fear, or indeed the man at the window, then we will." It sounded altruist of Sherlock, but I knew it was because he had got his teeth into the mystery of it all and would never let go.

"I like you already, boy! I can see that hunter's eye in you. My father had it."

We funnelled out onto the front drive. I was about to join my roommate when I noticed that Mary was lagging behind me. She was the last person inside, and was leaning against the peeling wallpaper, her eyes fixed on the ground. Her breathing had become heavy. She was shaking.

"Mary?" I asked, concerned.

Her lower lip trembled, and soon tears cascaded down her cheeks. She could no longer hold it in. That aching, inner pain was something I was accustomed to, and no matter how familiar it becomes, it hurts as badly as it did at the start. Mary faded in my watery eyes. My arm reached to take hold of my father's cane hooked to my back, but I held it in place. My fingers ached to be set free, shaking like rattling bones in mid-air. I couldn't do it. It wasn't right. It wasn't a weakness I could surrender to.

I pulled my arm forward, and alongside the other, I embraced Mary as she grieved. Was it my place? I didn't know her well after all, but I couldn't bear to leave her standing alone. She was still at first, but soon she held me back.

"I know… I know."


End file.
